Especially at 82. All those decades should have taught my generation something. The wars. The Great Depression. The--

Your generation. The great sufferers.

No. The grateful sufferers. We laugh a lot.

Don't you ever cry?

Often. I cry when I'm angry at cruelty, unfairness. I cry when I'm happy, at beauty, generosity. I cry at my past failures and beg forgiveness for past wrongs. I'm the Alice in Wonderland of my age group, swimming in my tears.

What about fears?

I have my share, don't you? I'm afraid I've run my charge card beyond its limit. Again. Afraid my '88 car will give out when I'm gunning it in the carpool lane without a passenger. I'm afraid I'll get crabby, or taciturn, or gushy, or forgetful.

What about your children?

You had to ask. They're my soft spot. They're all scattered. Sometimes I wake at night and pretend we're together playing Monopoly, or the little great-granddaughters are showing me their ballet routines. I ache for them.

But you're fiercely independent. You live alone.

Don't give me too much credit. It wasn't by choice. When I was first thrust into that role, I was afraid of everything--failure in my work, failure in my relationships. My middle name was fear.

But you're not afraid to die?

I intend to kick and scream against the grim man with the scythe 'til my very last breath--because I love this life.

With all its pain? You can't read the daily newspaper without--

--reading stories of brave, noble people. They just don't get the headlines, and their pictures aren't gruesome. We like gruesome. We need beauty.

You're a dreamer. You don't know what it is to be hurt, to lose, to fail.

I do know. And I'm still here. "How about them apples?" as we used to say.

And you're gloating.

Not gloating. Just quietly pleased. The rough-and-tumble years have gone. There's a new sweetness to my days. A quietness. A calm. But not too calm.

You mean things still get you riled?

Plenty of things. War. Poverty. Abuse, Loneliness. People who love their God but they don't love your God. They love their race, but they don't love your race. They love their country but they don't love your country. Plenty of things. I've had some good fights. There's something grand about being in the middle of a fracas. You work hard. You sweat. You drop with weariness. But the victory is lovely.

Any victories in particular?

The civil rights movement. Glad that one occurred in my lifetime. And the women's movement. No victory is ever final, of course. And you can find a new cause around every bend.

You like being a rabble-rouser?

Sweet, peaceful me? Well, yes, I do. When I pop off this earth, I'd like to be a professional rabble-rouser for justice in the afterlife.